


In Pursuit of a Justified Terror

by asuralucier



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Ambition is Sexy, Character Study, Clothes Sharing, Developing Relationship, Identity Porn, It only pretends to be, M/M, Not Before Crisis Compliant, Power Imbalance, Rufus Shinra: Rich Dude Asshole, Sexy Snarks and Bantz, Slum Excursions, Smoking, Trinity Knots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22585123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: While still under house arrest, Rufus appeals to Tseng for an unusual favor.
Relationships: Rufus Shinra/Tseng
Comments: 14
Kudos: 59
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	In Pursuit of a Justified Terror

**Author's Note:**

  * For [karanguni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/karanguni/gifts).



> Written for the prompt: “slum excursions.” Full disclaimer: this is not quite OT3, but it spoke to me. (Also ignores Before Crisis for the most part, but Rufus under house arrest snarking with the Turks was a thing that begged to be written.)

Sometimes, Tseng forgot that Rufus Shinra was under house arrest.

Rufus was, for all intents and purposes, a model prisoner kept in what could also be considered a model prison. The apartment he’d been sequestered in for the last three months, was small enough that a dozen cameras captured his every move within its confines, and that was considered sufficient. 

As part of the conditions of his imprisonment, Rufus was not allowed to leave the apartment without an escort, and yet everything the young man could deign to want was provided to him. A cook came every day to prepare his meals, and a maid came to clean the apartment from top to bottom twice a week. (The maid was also not really a maid, but everybody kept their mouths shut about that.) 

For everything else, Rufus simply asked, and got. He was religious about reading the morning edition of _The Midgar Star_ and insisted that someone deliver that to him to accompany his breakfast. Of course, Rufus was shut off from internal corporate communications, but what was published in the paper remained public knowledge. 

Tseng found himself fascinated by the way Rufus read the paper, and figured the assiduous young man was possibly the only person left in the 18-21 demographic who still read the paper back to front and then again. 

“The front page,” Rufus said, waving a hand for Tseng to help himself to coffee or tea, “is just a distraction. All the shit they want you to pay attention to. Light on the facts, but heavy on the sensation. If you want to know what’s really going on, you start from the back.” 

“Or I’d just read the internal communiqués,” Tseng responded, deciding on tea. He took a clean mug from one of the glass cupboards. 

“I would too, if I could. Does this mean you’ve reconsidered my offer?” Rufus asked. 

Rufus kept some gold rose sugar in a gilded tin next to his cooking spices. Like everything else in the apartment, it was only the finest grade, grown in and imported from Costa Del Sol. Tseng helped himself to some, knowing that in doing so, he was paying tribute to an idea, acknowledging the reach of the Shinra Electric Company. It was something that Rufus and the President had in common, though the former would never be caught dead admitting to it. 

Tseng glanced back at him. “I would be taking an inordinate amount of risk, if I were to bring you more than the morning paper.” 

Not to be outdone, Rufus stared straight into Tseng’s eyes without even the slightest flinch. He said, “And I would reward you inordinately in turn. For your loyalty; no, not only that, for your foresight.”

Warily, Tseng glanced up at one of the cameras affixed to the wall just above the entryway of the kitchen. Born and bred into a world of dizzying excess, Rufus had a way about him of twisting irony around in his mouth until words became lean and cruel and most of all, precise on his tongue, where they had no business being. 

“I’m not sure you have anything to barter with, sir.” There was a vacant chair across from where Rufus sat, still perusing the paper. Tseng moved to sit, but Rufus was quicker. He stuck out his foot, knocking one of the chair legs, and the chair toppled. 

Tseng set his mug of tea down on the table–given all the other objects on it, he thought there was a slim chance of Rufus upending that too–and righted the chair before he took a seat.

“What matters is what I think, Tseng, not what you think,” Rufus said, as if nothing had just happened. He flipped a page of his paper, punctuated by a sip of coffee. 

“Then no, I’m not going to take you up on your offer,” Tseng returned evenly. He nearly apologized, although he’d done nothing wrong. Or no, he might have offended Rufus so thoroughly that the young man would surely remember all the ways he’d been wronged once he finished serving out his sentence.

(At the minute, it’s an indefinite sentence, but so far Rufus hadn’t let it get him down.)

Rufus said, “Final answer?”

“Final answer.”

Rufus put down the paper. He seemed to be searching Tseng’s face for any sign of give, of uncertainty. Thankfully, Tseng had years of practice to draw on, and more recently, the added advantage of a standing poker game with the other Turks on Thursday nights. These days, they were a sober bunch, and Tseng thought it boosted morale and camaraderie. 

“Very well.” Rufus nodded at last. “I won’t ask you again. I don’t want to insult you.” 

Tseng prompted, “But?” 

“But I do have another favor to ask.”

Tseng skimmed the top of his tea. “I shall do my utmost.”

“You will do as you’re allowed,” Rufus corrected him. “I want to go into the slums. I’ve never been.”

“The...slums.” Tseng sounded out the request and decided that he was not entirely surprised. If he’s surprised by anything, it’s only that it’s taken Rufus so long to ask. But then, Tseng wasn’t surprised by that either. Rufus had the dark patience of a zolom, and knew how to wait to strike for maximum effect. Tseng was off his game today, and Rufus probably smelled it all over him. 

Rufus continued, as if Tseng hadn't spoken, “There’s meant to be a protest going on there today, a demonstration against my father and the _appalling_ decisions made by the Shinra Electric Company. I would like to observe. You’ve heard about the unfortunate accident in Sector 5, haven’t you? It was in yesterday’s paper.”

“Is observing all you want to do?”

Rufus smiled, thin and sharp like a knife. “I’ve learned my lesson not to sell highly confidential information about Company workings to slum terrorists. If that’s what you mean.”

“Or just not get caught if you want to do it again,” Tseng said dryly. Before anything, Tseng was a Turk, the head of Shinra’s Administrative Research Division, more or less a catchall for “don’t fucking tell us what you’re up to, and if you do tell us, lie.” He weighed the request seriously in his mind, if only because Rufus Shinra might sign his paychecks one day. 

Rufus said, “Will you help me?” 

Tseng glanced up towards the camera once more. He sighed, “Would it prove my loyalty?” 

“Now you’re learning,” Rufus said. “It’d certainly be a start.” 

“Hey, boss,” Reno greeted Tseng with a dark sleeve slung over one arm. Reno smelled, as he usually did, of cigarettes. Then he nodded past Tseng's shoulder at Rufus, the same gesture just a shade less friendly the second time around. “Hey, boss’s boss.”

Rufus nodded back. “Not yet. But put out your cigarette.”

It was always jarring for Tseng to see Reno and Rufus side by side. Their birthdays were mere months apart, and yet as Rufus sat, armed with the stillness of a thousand years, Reno refuted that calmness on his feet, like a youthful, impatient fire. If Rufus was a zolom, then Reno was a whole eater, attacking at random, intent upon creating chaos.

Reno took the cigarette out of his mouth, but not before inhaling deeply from it. Then he exhaled, tilted his head upwards. “Don’t wanna.” 

Rufus glanced meaningfully at Tseng. “Make him put it out. It reeks.”

Yet another chance for Tseng to prove his loyalty. This was possibly Rufus’s version of kindness. He let you help yourself. Tseng opened his mouth to speak, but Reno beat him to it.

“Hey. _Are_ the two of you roping me into something that I oughta sign forms for?”

Like the Turks were ever into paper. Tseng went to fix himself another cup of tea. At this point, he needed something stronger than caffeine, but nothing was going his way today. It was a bad sign whenever Reno started enjoying himself. Reno enjoyed playing to type, especially in front of somebody like Rufus Shinra. 

Rufus said, “Yes. Forms for severance. That is, severing your limbs.”

Reno arched a brow and feigned surprise. “Wow, o-kay. I can tell you don’t like foreplay. That's a shock.”

Rufus touched the signet ring he wore on the second finger of his right hand. He pressed into it, as if to check the hardness of the gauzy pale materia that served as the ring's center stone. And then, in an impossible feat only granted to the most self-assured of men, even a young man imprisoned in a fine apartment, Tseng watched as Rufus decided not to punch Reno in the mouth.

Instead, Rufus said, "You're right, I do think foreplay is a waste of time."

Reno nearly swallowed his cigarette. Which, was possibly another way of making him get rid of it.

"That's enough, both of you," Tseng said, mustering as much authority as he could given the state of things. "Rufus, if you still want to go out, then go get changed. And Reno, give me your cigarette. Now."

The fact that Tseng dared call Rufus by his given name escaped exactly no one in the room. A terse silence passed them all over, and Reno did as he was told, handing over the offending cigarette without a word, for once. 

A moment after that, Rufus stood and grabbed the sleeve that Reno left on the back of Tseng’s recently vacated chair. He headed down the hall to his bedroom, shut the door.

Tseng helped himself to a drag of Reno's cigarette. It was rough, and it did stink, but he'd be lying if it didn't hit the spot just now. Even if his throat itched with a terrible urge to cough. 

"Kid's wound way too tight. He's gotta get out more." Reno nudged Tseng at his shoulder. "Please tell me you're planning to sneak him into a brothel or something. I keep waiting for him to, you know." Reno motioned south. "Explode."

"The kid," Tseng said, "is older than you. And is a known terrorist." Besides, speculating about Rufus Shinra's bedroom preferences probably wasn’t the way Reno would want to go out. But who knew?

"Yeah, by like what, five minutes? I'm sure I can get up to other shit that makes his royal highness cry at night." Reno snorted. "Anyway, if you're going down there, will you get me more smokes? I'm out. 'S my last one." He demonstrated, pulling out the whites of his trouser pockets.

"Sure." Just this time, Tseng didn't bother to tell Reno that he smoked too much.

Some ten minutes later, Rufus emerged. Turk blue, a dark shade just past this side of navy, suited the natural pallor of his skin. However, Rufus looked less than comfortable in what should have been quite a comfortable getup for him. Even on days where he received no visitors, Tseng knew that the young man still took the time to dress well. He knew his way around a suit and tie, the joke was that he was swathed in the getup from birth. Tseng enjoyed watching Rufus get dressed almost as much as he liked watching Rufus read the paper.

Rufus looked around the room suspiciously and sniffed the air. "Is he gone?"

"I've sent Reno away, yes," Tseng confirmed. 

"It still smells in here," Rufus said, looking at him up and down. "Is it you?"

"I smoke on occasion, but not slum cigarettes," Tseng admitted. "Bit too harsh for me. But you know, if you're going to go down there, you're going to smell far worse than slum cigarettes. –Come here."

Even Rufus Shinra wasn’t quite immune to the power of uniform. He acquiesced, head bowed as he approached Tseng by the sink. Even though Tseng looked for it, there wasn’t an inch of stubborn protest lodged in Rufus's spine like before when he was clinging onto his own flavor of authority. 

This game worked because they both understood it. Each player had to pretend exactly the right amount. 

After a moment, Tseng reached for Rufus's tie and tugged the knot apart.

Rufus started to jerk away from him, but at the last second, stood still. He asked, "What are you doing?"

If you're going to be a Turk, even for a few hours, you might as well look the part." Tseng added, "sir." As if that made it better, somehow. Mostly, he was relieved that things were right side up again.

"I'm not going to change my mind," Rufus said, holding his chin at a strange angle, as he attempted to keep track of what Tseng was doing, passing the smaller end of the tie into the increasingly complicated knot forming neatly just below his throat, while still looking him in the eye. "And nobody will realize that I'm not a Turk by virtue of my..." Rufus trailed off, just realizing the fallacy inherent in his words.

"Most of the individuals who enter into the Turks are quicker to throttle someone with a tie rather wear it around their necks," Tseng said. He pulled the narrower end of the tie through the knot one final time, and tucked the tail of the tie into Rufus's shirt. In doing so, he touched Rufus's bare skin, only for a second, but even in that second, Tseng could feel a shift in the younger man's breathing, as if he was recording the touch, in case Rufus found use for it later. Then he stepped back. "All done. Go look in the mirror, if you'd like."

Rufus passed curious fingers over the Trinity knot sitting snug between his spread collar. He was careful, as he examined the triple axes holding in the smooth monochrome fabric. He raised his eyes. "That's not the knot you're wearing."

"It isn't," Tseng agreed, touching a hand almost protectively to his own throat, just in case. "But if you're a rookie Turk, then you wear this knot until I say otherwise. It represents the three virtues of service. Three things a Turk must be at all times. And until those three things become etched in your head and thick in your blood, the knot reminds you."

There was a smirk that threatened the corners of Rufus’s mouth. He seemed to have made up his mind to really play along, because now there was a slouch to his posture. It sat clearly at odds with nearly two decades of forced bodily etiquette. Tseng thought, at that moment, that Rufus Shinra could have made an excellent, and yet at the same time a terrible Turk. "Yeah, and what's that?"

Tseng said, “You know Reno only speaks like that to get on your nerves.” 

Rufus frowned. “Just tell me.” 

"A Turk at all times, must exhibit fealty, cunning, and professionalism. It's what sets us apart. One for virtue for each axis." Tseng pressed his thumb very gently against the Trinity knot and Rufus swallows as if prompted by some invisible command.

And suddenly, Rufus was himself once more, as if it no longer suited him to play this game. Straight-backed, unwieldy, and in charge. He moved past Tseng towards the front door of the apartment. “Good for you, I’m already all of those things. Let’s go.” 

“...And this was in the paper?” Tseng glanced at the somber crowd around them. Apparently there was a memorial ceremony before the protest was due to start and for whatever reason, Rufus knew exactly where to go, despite having never been to the slums before. There was a small part of Tseng that wanted to grab Rufus by the arm before the man melted away into the slums never to be seen again. A part that went beyond fidelity, cunning, or professionalism.

“If you read between the lines, anything could be in the paper,” Rufus said, unmoving. He was not looking anywhere in particular, but he seemed oddly relaxed, as if he was being rejuvenated by the misery around him. 

“Ah.” That was a point. Tseng made a mental note to visit the offices of _The Midgar Star_ and make some pointed (if quiet) enquiries. 

“You won’t find anything.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“At the paper,” Rufus reiterated quietly next to his ear.

Tseng rolled his eyes up towards the high ceilings of the Church. In its heyday, it’d once been adorned with intricate statues and glasswork. Now it looked like it was about to cave in any minute, and no one seemed to be taking notice. But then, the denizens of the slums probably had much worse to be worried about. 

_DOWN WITH SHINRA! DOWN WITH SHINRA!_

With the chorus of protests still ringing in his ears, Tseng went and bought Reno his cigarettes. He suddenly overwhelmed with the urge for one and asked the cashier for a lighter. He handed over new gil notes and received dingy coins in return. The exchange made Rufus a bit green. 

“I told you it’d reek down here,” said Tseng. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. He waited for Rufus to demand that he put it out, but the young man said nothing. “But these taste better than they smell.” 

“Do they?” 

“Have a try, I’ll light you one.” 

Instead, Rufus reached to pluck Tseng’s cigarette from between his fingers and breathed in once he held it to his lips. Then he coughed and swore and Tseng thumped him on the back. 

After he’d recovered, Rufus picked at a loose thread on his borrowed suit. “Whose clothes am I wearing, anyway?” 

“Mine,” Tseng said, telling the truth. “No one else’s would have fit you.” 

Rufus rolled his shoulders back, as if to demonstrate the untruthfulness of the statement. It was true that the clothes weren’t a perfect fit, but perhaps they weren’t meant to be, either. A good Turk always grew into it. Then Rufus stared straight ahead, at the crowds passing by. 

“Do you suppose they’ll ever get tired of yelling at my father?” 

“Doubt it,” Tseng said, following the trajectory of the younger man's gaze. “And when the President’s gone, they might yell at you next. There are always protests down here, for something or the other. What goes on up top is, well.” 

Rufus laughed, “I doubt that. I’d make sure they’re so afraid they’d never open their tiny mouths.” The sound, sharpened by years of ambition and being in the President's shadow, had nothing of kindness or mirth in it. The sound rested just below Tseng's throat, also for later. He liked it, and maybe a chance to prove his fealty to Rufus Shinra wasn't the worst choice Tseng could be making.

When Rufus extended his hand for the cigarette again, Tseng handed it over. As Rufus breathed in a second time, he didn’t make a sound.

**Author's Note:**

> The [Trinity Knot](https://www.realmenrealstyle.com/trinity-necktie-knot/) is a real thing but its axes are meant to nod to the Celtic Triquetra knot rather than the Turks' motto, which I totally made up.


End file.
